Nicest Thing
by spikesvamp79
Summary: Molly believes Sherlock to be actually dead after Reichenbach. Drama ensues. (Will be Sherlolly eventually, I promise!)
1. Chapter 1

AN: This story goes under the assumption that Molly was NOT in on Sherlock faking his death. Assume that the "You look sad when you think he can't see you" conversation took place. Do not assume that the "What do you need?" took place. All errors are my own.

Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock nor "Nicest Things." I just borrow them and play with them for a bit before they have to return to reality.

Basically, I wish that you loved me

I wish that you needed me

I wish that you knew when I said two sugars

Actually I meant three

"Nicest Thing" by Kate Nash

When Mike comes into the morgue to tell her that Sherlock Holmes just jumped off the building and is dead, Molly feels the earth drop from beneath her heart. She doesn't mean to let out the loud sob, but she no longer has control over her body. All she could do was to all of these sounds and tears to flow out from her. It isn't as if she has any right to mourn him like this. She isn't his wife or his girlfriend; she isn't even sure the he'd consider her a friend. But despite all of this, she loves him. Loved him, she corrects herself. This brings about a fresh round of tears.

She's given the rest of the week off. Given that she couldn't stop crying at work, it's clear there's no logic in keeping her there. She starts to head towards her flat, but ends up at 221B. She honestly didn't mean to, but here she is. She knocks, and Mrs. Hudson opens the door. She hasn't spent much time with the older woman, but that doesn't stop her from pulling Molly into a tight embrace. Molly takes comfort from the hug; it's the first one she's had since finding out. There is so much comfort that Molly begins to cry again. After a moment, she releases the younger girl and sends her up to John.

He's in his chair and it looks as though he hasn't moved. There is a cut on his head and it's bleeding freely onto his shirt. Molly rushes forward and begins to examine his head. "Where's your medical kit?" she asks.

"Leave it," John says quietly. She knows that she has to get his head bandaged. It's not too deep, but it's enough to be concerned about. Molly moves in front of him and kneels down. Taking his hand in hers, she looks into his eyes. They are tired. No, they are exhausted. The age lines that seem to disappear in the madness of rushing around London with Sherlock have become prominent and taken over his countenance, making him seem years older than he really is. His posture is stiff. In the absence of knowing what to do and where to go, the military training has taken over and demanded that he sit up straight with shoulders back and head high. His eyes, usually dark blue, seem pale and grey in the fading light from the window.

"John, I have to fix your head. You know I do. Please, tell me where your med kit is. Please," she begs softly. John takes a shaky breath and finally looks at her.

"In the bathroom, under the sink," he replies. She squeezes his hands and goes to fetch it. Molly wets a towel and begins cleaning his wound from where he fell on the street. She gets the blood off of his face as well. She's so thankful for something to focus on. Too quickly, she has it cleaned and a bandage on it. She makes tea from something to do. Soon, Mrs. Hudson brings up soup and sandwiches. They get John to eat half a bowl, which is enough. Molly finds a valium in the med kit and makes him take it with a glass of water and sends him to bed.

Knowing sleep wouldn't come and not wanting to be alone, Molly begins cleaning the kitchen. She throws out the rotten food. She finds bleach and goes through every surface and cabinet. She isn't ready to stop. She dusts every surface in the living area, being sure to oil the wood. The books are placed back on their shelves, and it doesn't take her long to figure out Sherlock's system. Still unsatisfied, she moves to the bathroom and scrubs it from top to bottom. By the time she's done, she realizes how dirty she is and how exhausted she is. She grabs a robe from the back of Sherlock's door, which she has steadfastly avoided up till now, and brings it to the bathroom with her. She strips and takes one of the hottest showers ever. She scrubs the filth from her skin, both from the cleaning and from the harrowing day.

By the time she's done, her skin is red and warm from the shower. She combs out her hair (thank goodness Sherlock uses conditioner. Used.) She dons his robe and goes to lie down on the couch, but instead winds up in his room. She turns on the light and gets into his bed. She pulls the rob and covers around her tightly. She wants to be held by the man whose bed she's in, but he isn't here and she is desperately alone. As she turns to switch off the light, the smell of Sherlock hits her. It isn't a particular scent, but it's just him. She had caught bits of it sometimes in the lab, and every time the smell hit her, she was floored with how good it smelt. To Molly, no one smelt better than Sherlock.

But right now, lying in his bed, wearing his robe, smelling his scent, she can't handle it. She throws off the covers and runs to the other man upstairs, who she is rather certain will hold her. Molly eases open the door and sees John asleep in his bed. The valium is still in effect, so she lifts up the covers and slips in next to him. As soon as she does this, she feels him shift to put his arms around her and to pull her close. She sighs as she relaxes into his embrace. Even though the man they love is dead, at least they have this.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks so much for the awesome reviews! I have been playing with this idea for some time and hadn't seen it done, so I thought I would go for it. I'm not so sure that I'm the best one to do this, but why not?

Disclaimer: The characters or the dialogue borrowed are not mine, sadly. All mistakes are mine, sadly.

John felt the sun hit his eyes. The infrequent and often hidden sun had decided that today it would actually come out in full force. As his unconscious began to fade, he realized that there was something rather warm in his arms. A rather soft something. A rather Molly shaped something, he saw when he finally opened his eyes. The sight of Molly brought him to the reality of what had happened the day before. As he shifted to better position her, he saw her eyes flutter open.

Yesterday, had John woken up in bed with Molly Hooper, he might have leapt out of bed and turned into an awkward façade of himself. Today, he neither cared enough about anything to do so nor did he have the energy to remove the only spot of warmth from his side. He simply looked at the poor woman who cared for Sherlock just as much as he did. John gently smoothed a piece of hair back from her face. "Morning," he said roughly.

"Morning," she replied. "Sorry about the sleeping arrangements, I just—"

"I understand," he interrupted. "What did you dose me with last night," he asked.

"Valium. I thought—"

"Yeah, I wouldn't have slept otherwise," he said. John returned his gaze to the woman curled up against his chest. The sun hit her hair at just the perfect angle to make it glow. Despite the redness and exhaustion evident in her eyes, he could see the natural beauty that favoured her countenance. How could Sherlock have not seen the love that she could have offered him? John would love to find a woman who would be able to love him as much as Molly loved Sherlock.

"He's really gone, isn't he," Molly said softly, breaking into his thoughts. John cleared his throat.

"Yes, he is."

"I still believe in him, no matter what the press or anyone else says," she stated with more force than John had realized resided in the woman.

"As should we all," he said. "He called me, right before. It was his note."

Molly shifted to look at him. "Oh, John, I'm sorry. I didn't know. What did he, no, sorry, it's not my place to ask," she said.

"No, it's fine. He told me he was a fake and that I should have never believed him. Right bastard unto the very end," John said. Despite his restraint, he let out a small sob. Molly tightened her grip on him and pulled him closer. She buried her head into his chest as the man began to cry in earnest.

After a rather lengthy lie-in, in which both John and Molly ended up crying, the two awkwardly made their way downstairs for tea and toast. Though neither actually felt like eating, their practical, doctor sides won out and they did so. Afterwards, neither moved from their place at the table as they did not know what to do. Molly had a message on her phone from Mike saying that he had given her the rest of the week off. John's work had been with Sherlock, and with Sherlock's absence, there was no more. He wasn't scheduled at the clinic for that week, and so that was not a worry.

Needing something to do, Molly cleaned up the breakfast dishes and changed out of Sherlock's robe and back into her dirty clothes. She went out to speak with John about asking him what she could do to help him, but the atmosphere between them had changed from being about two people comforting each other after the death of a man that they both loved to a rather awkward morning after. The previous night had been so out of character for both of them that it left them confused as to how to go about. Molly gently squeezed John's shoulder and spoke. "Call me if you need help with the arrangements, or anything for that matter," she said quietly. With a final squeeze, she left 221B and headed home.

A week off had been both a blessing and a curse for Molly. It was nice not having to face constant reminders of the man who was now dead, but it also left her mind free to roam where it would. She found herself quickly forgetting every deduction that Sherlock had ever made that had hurt her. He began to transform in her mind from the man who he actually was to the man who she would have loved him to be. She saw a thousand futures where Sherlock lost the rudeness and cruelty in his comments towards her and finally saw her for who she actually was. She saw him taking her up on her propositions for dates and creating grand displays of his affection for her. And, even though she had an idea that this was not the healthiest approach to remembering her dead crush, it was the most satisfying way to do it.

After four days of living in her head and simply laying around the flat, she received a text from John with information about the funeral the next day. This insert of reality stopped her fantasies. She felt herself crashing back down to earth. Sherlock Holmes had never loved her, and now he never would. Tomorrow, she and John and Mrs. Hudson and possibly even his brother Mycroft would bury Sherlock in the ground and that would be that.

Her mourning had been postponed by the fantasies came back to her in a rush. She began to cry silently, mourning not just the man who was no more but everything that could have been. She knew that he would never have done those things that she imagined, but he would sometimes give her a smile when she made a particularly interesting observation or interpretation. When she would stay late to work in the lab with him, he would sometimes let her in on his observations and insights into cases. She loved seeing into his brilliant mind, and it was the part of him that attracted her most. She was the first to admit that Sherlock was dashing and handsome and clever and smelled amazing, but it was his mind that held the most attraction for her.

Molly found her funeral dress in the back of her closet. As much as she hated doing it, after her grandmother's death, she had purchased this dress and worn it to every funeral she had ever been to. It had been to a friend's who had overdosed on prescription painkillers; it had been to her father's; now it would go to Sherlock's. She ironed it and pulled out the appropriate garments to accompany it: black stockings, a black cardigan, low black pumps, and a simple black hat.

Knowing that sleep would not come easily that night, Molly found a bottle of red wine and poured herself a healthy glass. She sat down to watch some crap telly, but found herself instead sitting in front of her window, staring down at the London street. There were some people still out, even though it was approaching eleven at night. Most people moved rather quickly through the London street, not wanting to notice each other or the woman watching them.

She noticed a man standing by a light pole. He didn't move for a good five minutes, and he seemed to be staring up into her room. Remembering all of the threats that Moriarty had made against Sherlock, Molly felt frightened. What if they thought that she was still working for what Sherlock had done? What if they were targeting her? She sat her glass of wine down and found her phone. Just as she was about to hit the call button, she saw the man move from his position and disappear into the people still walking. She watched him until she couldn't see him anymore and resumed drinking her wine. Molly shook it off as nerves and being overly emotional. She didn't count to Sherlock, why would she count to Moriarty?

The sun just couldn't seem to stop shinning these days, thought John as he woke. He sighed deeply. At least now that it was up it wouldn't be strange for him to be awake. He would be so glad after today was over. The pain of losing Sherlock was huge, but he knew that there would be a great catharsis after today was over. He went through his morning routine and got himself ready for the day. After dressing and washing, he went down to Mrs. Hudson's apartment for breakfast. She made him more food than he could have ever eaten, but he had no desire to eat. After she smacked him on the head, he decided to at least try to eat some. Despite having to force the first few bites down, his body realised that he hadn't eaten for some time and began to demolish the food in front of him.

The two shared a cab to the funeral site. John saw Mycroft waiting with Molly, who looked very uncomfortable. John helped Mrs. H from the cab and took her arm as they walked toward the other two. He greet Mycroft with a handshake and Molly with an awkward hug. She had clearly already been crying and he knew that today was not going to be a good day for her. Greg soon arrived, and the group made their way over to Sherlock's grave. There was a priest who said a few words that no one heard and then the coffin was lowered into the ground. There was already a headstone in place, which was rather unusual. John figured that Mycroft must have pulled some strings to get it done early.

After John placed a handful of dirt on the grave, Mycroft left immediately. Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm and hugged Molly and then left as well. Molly looped her arms through his as they stood there. "He was…" John broke off.

"I know," said Molly, tears streaming silently down her face. "I'll give you a mo', alright?"

John nodded and watched her walk back to the car. "Hmf. You, you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human, human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me that you told a lie, and so, there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Okay," he finished and began to walk away. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead. Would do? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this," he said and walked away.

Molly shared a ride back to 221B with John and Mrs. Hudson. The older woman had made food for a small army should that many have come to the service, but just the two of them came back to the flat. She poured generous glasses of wine and the three ate. Afterwards, Mrs. Hudson broke the silence by telling them a story about a shenanigan that Sherlock had pulled one time. The three then began to exchange stories of his antics and found themselves laughing and remembering the man they loved so well.

Sooner than any one of them would have liked, Mrs. Hudson went off to bed. John invited Molly upstairs, and she agreed. Though she knew that she should go home and go to bed, she simply did not want to be alone right now. John and her sat on the couch and continued to drink wine. Before either realised it, Molly had her head on his shoulder, and John had his arm around hers. They simply relished in the company and peace that being with another person who knew what they were going through brought.

Suddenly, Molly shifted and looked up at John. Without thinking, he bent down to kiss her. At the gentle press of his lips against hers, Molly felt shock but also desire. Instead of pushing him away and going home as she knew that she should have done, she kissed him back. The dynamic between them shifted greatly as Molly found herself straddling John's lap and began snogging him in earnest.


End file.
